The Lockpicker and the Elves
by Ruahnna
Summary: When Neal volunteers to help deliver some Christmas gifts, he finds that Santa has a need for his particular skill set. Can Neal save the day? Can Santa?
1. Chapter 1

_**Part 1 Summary:**__ Neal does his best to avoid the germs at the office because he and Mozzie have plans for Christmas Eve. A trip to the Riviera? Not likely..._

**The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 1 of 7**

Neal was hunched over his desk, staring at his legal page of notes. "Peter, so help me—if you _breathe_ on me, I am going to pop you," he complained. Peter, who thought he'd been hovering inconspicuously, colored and backed up.

"I am not sick anymore," he insisted. "I told you I got my flu shot right after-"

"Yeah, yeah," said Neal. "And a _lot_ of _good_ it did. Unfortunately, since _everybody_-" Here he stopped to glare around the the rows of desks-"didn't do the _same_, you'd already _given at the office_."

According to Neal, the cubicle farm had become a "toxic cesspool of germs." Eschewing the break room, Neal had taken to eating lunch in the conference room, but his charm and personal magnetism had drawn others in his wake. He'd sighed, slapped on a smile and pushed his chair back, but when Laura May, who was on loan from Accounting, reached across and snagged one of his bread sticks _just_ to annoy him, he'd taken to eating lunch out. Peter had found him today on the roof, cradling his turkey and provolone on focaccia bread protectively..

"Don't worry," Peter had said. "I'm not coming out. I just wanted to let you know we're meeting on the Kelsey-Barnes case after lunch in the conference room."

"_All_ of us? In _one room_?"

"Yes, Neal," Peter said patiently. "The whole team."

Neal said nothing, but his face closed in stony silence.

"Neal?"

"Fine," Neal muttered. "I'll be there."

At the meeting itself, Neal sat in the doorway, halfway out the door into the hall, but he took notes and seemed engaged in the case. He'd offered a couple of good observations, fielded a couple of questions. When the meeting ended, he made to return to his office but Peter took a deep breath and braved the storm.

"Neal—a minute, please."

He saw his C.I. hesitate, saw him struggle to control his face, then nod shortly and stand well back until everyone else had filed out. When everyone else had left he came into the conference room and stood at attention. At least, to Peter, that's what it looked like, and it made him feel like a despot or a dictator. He was absolutely certain that was exactly the way Neal _wanted_ him to feel, and he ground his teeth and fought to keep his frustration from reaching his face.

"Thanks for your help in there," he said. Neal nodded and said nothing for a moment, but when Peter didn't continue, he shifted.

"Is that-"

"No, _damn _it, that's not all," Peter said. He wanted to take Neal by the shoulders and shake him, drag the truth out of him, but that was a conversation for another day, or another _life_. _Baby steps_, he reminded himself, and started where he thought they might find some common ground.

"Do you mind working with Garcia on this?" Peter asked. "You've had more experience—"

"Not a problem," Neal said after a slight pause. Somehow—Peter wasn't sure _how—_Neal managed to convey that he knew he would be expected to do it whether he minded or not. Peter wondered, not for the first time, how he did that. He tried another tack.

"If you'd rather work alone—"

"It's fine." Neal's stance softened a smidge, not wanting to appear ungracious. "Garcia's getting pretty good at these cases," he offered. "I'll be glad to have his help."

It wasn't an olive branch, but it wasn't a baseball bat either. Peter took the plunge.

"May I at least _ask_," Peter said plaintively, "why you are _suddenly_ such a germaphobe?"

"I am not _suddenly_ such a germaphobe," Neal snapped. "I am simply trying not to catch the plague you brought to our office so I don't spend my Christmas vacation throwing up into a stocking."

"Okay, so you don't wanna catch this flu that going around—I get that. It's pretty nasty."

"You brought it in—you should know," Neal said testily.

"But you weren't like this _last_ year. Why is _this_ year different from all the other years?"

That was a loaded question, and for a moment, Peter saw anger—real and flaming—in Neal's eyes, then his face became bland again, if somewhat unfriendly. Peter put his hand out in a "hold on" gesture and shook his head, trying to backtrack out of the conversational minefield he'd just charged into, but when Neal still didn't answer, he put his hands on his hips and looked at Neal searchingly. "C'mon—spill." For a moment, he was afraid Neal was going to insist he make it a command instead of a request, but Neal seemed to have exhausted his desire for a confrontation.

"It's...I have plans this year," Neal mumbled.

"Going to the Riviera ?" Peter teased, but Neal just looked at him, stone-faced and rigid. He was used to being able to tease Neal, but the silences and the distance between them since Siegel's death had not only grown since, but _settled_. He could see Neal on the other side of the divide, but he was having trouble finding ways to bridge the gap when they spoke.

"No," Neal said, and did not elaborate.

Peter tried not to show his surprise, but failed spectacularly. Neal shifted and looked at him, something like disdain on his face.

"Tell me again how you manage when you're undercover?" he said.

"I manage _just fine_," Peter shot back, stung by the sarcasm in his C.I.'s voice. A dozen hurtful things sprang to his lips but the rational, calculating, _observant_ part of himself stopped them before they could escape. When Neal was hiding something, he usually _deflected_ and _baiting_ him was one of his standard fallbacks. Peter took a deep breath and counted to ten, aware that Neal was watching him warily. He wanted to ask about Neal's plans, wished he'd thought to include Neal in some way but he was rotten at those things and Neal had been...distant, more than a little reserved lately, and today—downright hostile.

"Okay. So you have...plans. How can I help you with that short of putting you in a plastic bubble until flu season is over?"

If Neal had been snarky about Peter's lack of poker face, Peter should have been allowed a return volley. Seeing the shock on Neal's face was satisfaction enough, and Peter felt a warm surge of relief when Neal's surprise turned to embarrassed pleasure.

"Um, _oh_," said Neal, obviously not expecting this. That—that he didn't expect _help_—made Peter's gut clench, but, taking a page from Neal's book, he slapped on a grin and waited.

"Well," said Neal, obviously trying to collect his thoughts. "Mozzie and I have a ..._thing_." As if realizing how that must sound, Neal's head shot up , his mouth full of protestations, but by now Peter had his reactions firmly under control.

"It's fine. Nevermind. Go on."

"Mozzie's been volunteering at an orphanage," Neal said carefully. A million questions flooded Peter's brain—things like _background checks_ and _encouraging the delinquency of a minor_. In a different time, Peter might have voiced his objections, if only to hear Neal argue him out of them, but things had been strained—not just between him and Mozzie but between him and Neal, and there wasn't enough ease in their relationship to impose. Neal might be his business, but Mozzie definitely wasn't, although there had been a time... Peter was glad he'd already pasted a smile on his face, or it would have been a hard call what expression would've shown. "We're supposed to show up on Christmas Eve and give out presents."

Peter's eyebrows climbed. "_You're_ Santa Claus?" he asked, and his mouth twitched at the corner.

Neal seemed to be having trouble with his own face, as close as he'd come to smiling all day. "Not exactly," he said.

"Peace on earth," ranted the man. "Merry Christmas to all—bah!"

It might be the happiest time of the year, but not everyone was planning holiday cheer. Sad as it is to relate, while some people are running to embrace forgiveness, togetherness, peace and goodwill, some are sulking and stewing and plotting. FBI agents—and C.I.s—are hardly in danger of being put out of business because of end-of-year celebrations.

"So—the holidays are _supposed_ to bring old friends together," the angry man snarled. "Let's just see how _happy_ you are to see _me_!"

Despite his heroic efforts, even _with_ Peter's help, Neal left on Christmas eve feeling rotten. He was pretty sure it wasn't the flu that had been going around, but his head hurt and his nose felt stuffy and tender. They had, at least, closed the case and carted away the bad guys from Kelsey-Barnes just in time for Christmas. Garcia had volunteered to do the paperwork solo before heading out.

"S'no problem," Garcia had insisted. "Just go home already and stop _breathing_ on me, man." Neal had gone.

Back at June's, he'd put on his costume and waited for Mozzie to come get him. They were going over to the community center early, meeting the delivery truck and the other volunteers and helping to get things ready for the party. He was determined not to disappoint either the children _or_ Mozzie, but he didn't think he was going to be worth much without a little lay-down beforehand. He flopped down on the couch and covered his eyes with his forearm, wishing he'd taken something but too lethargic to get up now that he was supine. Laying down was huge relief in and of itself, and he sighed with pleasure. _That was better_. A little down time and he'd be right as rain, ready to face anything. _I don't need a nap,_ he told himself. _Just a little calm before the storm_. The moment Mozzie came in, he'd be on his feet, ready to go.

In moments, he was out.

"Are you _sure_? Maybe he's just held up with last-minute stuff."

"We got the signal," he said soberly.

"_With_ the safe word?"

"Yep."

"Oh. The safe word. It's _bad_, then."

"Yeah. It's bad."

"Well, it's not like it's the first time we've had to deal with _him_."

"No, but I think he's serious this time."

"What about the big guy—he okay?"

"Seems to be. You know him—he's tough. You can't spook him. He's a survivor."

"Good thing. So...what are we going to do? You putting together a team?"

There was a slight hesitation. "Not much choice. I mean, it's Christmas Eve—"

"I know. So _what_? I'm _in_," said the first man. "I'm _way_ in."

His companion nodded. "Okay—you're in. But..."

"What?" Something about the other man's expression clued in him that this was no ordinary mission. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I think we're going to have to call in someone from...the _outside_."

"The _outside_? _**Outside**__ outside?_ You're kidding me, right_?"_

"I wish I was," came the muttered reply.

"I don't like it. It's—it's not the way we do things here."

"Does it look like I'm happy about it?" said the second fellow.

"No! We can handle it! The _last_ thing we need is a bunch of gawkers who will trip over their own big feet while we try to-"

"We need help."

"What makes you think so?"

"The first team was...unsuccessful."

"_First _team—o_h!_ Oh dear. Was anyone—"

"Everyone came back just fine—except the big guy. He's stuck."

"Did you try _all _the magic tricks?"

"Every one of them. This is different."

"How different can it be. It's Jack again—right?"

"Right, but he's pretty serious this time."

"Looks like _last_ time would've shown him he's never gonna—"

The first fellow grunted. "He gets better—or worse—every time. This time, we're up against new technology."

"New _technology_?"

"Yep. Ever heard of a company named 'Elsafe'?"

"Neal! _NEAL_!"

Neal shot up into a sitting position, his head sloshing miserably.

"Wuh?" He looked around, disoriented by the unexpected slumber. But there was nothing unexpected about the fellow who was shouting his name. In spite of himself, Neal grinned. Mozzie dressed like an elf—green tunic, green tights, fake points on his ears—was something to see-especially with the ginger mustache and whiskers. His green hat and the bobbing pompom on top were laughable, but the expression on the man's face was not.

"For Christmas' sake, _get up_! We need your help!"

"Right, right," he mumbled. "I'm coming."

"Well, _hurry._ Those presents aren't going to deliver themselves!"

Neal scrambled to his feet, slipping a little in the silly shoes. "Sorry," he said, running a hand over his face and through his hair. "Sorry-I...I guess I dozed off. I had a headache."

"I know all about your headache," his companion said gruffly. He held out a small vial and Neal looked at it askance.

"Um, not a fan," Neal said. "If all I have to do is give out presents to kids-"

"_All _you have to _do_? _All you have to do?_"

"Geez. Calm down. I'll take it." Neal put his hat back onto his head and took the vial. "This will make me feel better?"

"Getting the presents out will make _everyone_ feel better," came the gruff reply. "But, yes, drink _that_ and you'll think you can _fly._"

Neal sort of wished he hadn't swallowed it already, but he had, and that was that. It burned a little, but pleasantly so, like menthol or...maybe peppermint? The last thing Mozzie had concocted had been a little foul-this was, well, not bad. "I can see you've been working on the tasty pharmaceuticals," Neal teased, and got a pleased-sounding grunt in reply.

"Are you ready yet?"

Neal checked himself over, still not thrilled about the lack of pants, but if _he_ looked half as adorable as his diminutive friend did in his own elf suit and tights, he figured it would be a hit with the kids. "I guess so," he said.

"Then get the lead out." Neal was suddenly facing the back of a short red-headed elf, and his doubts about the costume and the lack of pants were put to rest. Drafty the costume might be, but it covered the necessities. He wondered fleetingly if there were going to be any women at the party, but whether it was that thought or the fact that his headache was clearing, he skidded on the felt curl-toed shoes and almost fell, grasping for the back of the couch. A green-clad arm shot out, caught him, and kept him on his feet. The strength in that return grip surprised Neal, but he was glad to not wipe out on his butt. He grinned, his hat askew.

"Thanks," he said. "I haven't got the hang of-"

"What in Santa's name are you wearing on your feet?"

Neal looked down, staring at the silly shoes. "They came with the outfit," he mumbled, embarrassed. He'd assumed he was supposed to wear them to complete the costume. He glanced at Mozzie's feet and noticed the beautifully-tooled red leather lace-up boots on his companion. "Hey—where'd you get yours?" he demanded. Leave it to Mozzie to be holding out on him.

_That_ got him a quizzical look, but Neal persevered. "How come you get cute elf boots when I'm wearing these house-shoe rejects?"

With a sigh, the well-shod elf in front of him turned and handed Neal a pair of boots that matched his own, except they were deep, forest-y green. There was a matching belt with them. Neal blinked, but took the boots and belt eagerly. "I suppose I should say 'thank you,'" he muttered, then used his grip on his friend's arm to steady himself while he put the boots on. They fit beautifully, and he had to admit he felt more..._adult_, he supposed, in the leather footwear than he had in the other shoes.

"Manners always matter," elf-Mozzie said, straight-faced, and Neal flashed him a grin.

"So I've been told."

"Are you ready _now_?" There was a plaintive tone in Mozzie's voice that told Neal he was getting antsy. He stood up straight and tightened the leather belt over the red tunic and adjusted his hat (again).

"Yeah," Neal said. "Lead the way to Santa's sleigh."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Part 2 Summary:**__ Peter and El have their own Christmas Eve plans, but Neal's plans have hit a little snag. Lots of little snags...and eight not-so-tiny reindeer._

**The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 2 of 7**

"Oh, Peter—_thank_ you, Hon. What a nice surprise! This is going to be _wonderful_," El exclaimed. She touched perfume behind her ears. He hair was swept up in a riot of dark curls, and pearl drops dangled and shimmered from her earlobes. Her gun-metal blue formal was ruched to her form, displaying her curves, but ended in a spray of understated netting and sequins around her ankles. She looked like some exotic night creature, gleaming and mysterious.

"You _look_ wonderful," Peter said, coming up behind her. She turned into his arms, sliding her hands up the arms of his tuxedo to rest on his broad shoulders.

"You're pretty dapper yourself, G-man," she said, then reached to adjust his bowtie. She bit her lip, concentrating, and Peter wanted to do the same, but he held himself in check. He needed to keep his head if he were going to drive and find them a decent parking place before the concert started.

"I haven't gone to a live performance of The Messiah in _years,_" El said. "It feels so...Christmas-y."

"Yeah, well the Philharmonic always sells out, but I thought this would be nice, instead. A little more low-key." A combined community choir promised to be just as festive, but tickets had been much more attainable.

"And such a good cause! All the proceeds will go for the Big Brother/Big Sister programs," she said approvingly.

"Don't tell Mozzie," Peter said dryly. El laughed and put a hand to his mouth. He kissed her fingers and continued. "I think this might be one artsy performance I won't expect to see him at."

He helped Elizabeth into her wrap. "Not a fan of Handel?" she asked.

"I don't know," Peter answered truthfully. "He might have l_iked_ him—he was rude, arrogant and never got married."

Elizabeth laughed as they walked out the door. "Sounds like Mozzie's kind of guy..."

"Um, when I said 'lead the way to Santa's sleigh' I didn't actually expect—"

He trailed off, watching the red boots climb the ladder between his door and his kitchen. He shook his head to clear it. _Why was Mozzie climbing the ladder to the roof?_ The trap door hadn't been opened in years, not since it was—as June liked to call it—"a moderate den of iniquity." _Why was he_—

The trapdoor opened without a squeak and Neal watched, dumbfounded, as the little man disappeared through it. He shook his head again, wondering what on earth was _in_ that vial he'd drunk. He was on the verge of yelling up through the opening when the ginger beard and a pair of scowling eyes appeared in the opening, blocking out the stars.

"You volunteered to help! Are you coming or _not_?" he demanded.

Sometimes, it was better not to try to argue with Mozzie. Neal started climbing the ladder.

"You think you're so _smart_," sneered the man at his prisoner. "You think you're so...so powerful and unstoppable."

"You've never stopped me before," the captive countered mildly. "Look, Jack—I know you don't really want to hurt me. Why don't you just-"

"Silence! _I_ am in charge here! None of that Christmas-spirit, Peace-on-earth-goodwill crap, thank you very much! This year, this _time_, we're going to do things _my_ way."

The man behind the bars said nothing, his blue eyes mild. "You're way doesn't sound like very much fun," he offered, but his captor just laughed.

"Oh, you have _no idea_ how much fun this is going to be. Just wait until morning! It will all be over by then!"

There was nothing to be gained by argument. The man inside the specially-crafted prison rubbed his arms and walked the length of his cell. Even though he'd been allowed to keep his coat, it was freezing in here. _But_, he supposed, _that was to be expected_. After a minute, he sat down on the cold, hard bench, but just for a moment. He got up and paced again, and this time his eyes were worried.

The first clue should have been the, um, _number_ of them on the roof, all clustered around the sleigh. Or maybe the _first_ clue should have been the sleigh _itself_, parked on June's roof like it did that every night. Or every _year_. Flabbergasted, Neal turned and looked back toward the trapdoor, but it was closed, and in the blowing snow he couldn't see it anymore. The figures swarmed around him. Small hands grabbed him—small _warm_ hands—and pulled him along. He was too surprised to resist, to shocked to protest.

"Mozzie," he began, trying to establish some sense of normalcy. The person (person?) he'd thought was Mozzie turned around (coincidentally, actually) and Neal wondered, despite the similarities, how he could _ever_ have mistaken this...this _elf_ for Mozzie. Elves...this _couldn't_ be happening, but it _was_.

"C'mon, c'mon," a very short dark-headed elf with a goatee fussed. "We don't have all night. We've got to get _cracking_!" He was climbing over the side of the sleigh, grasping the reins...the reins...oh. Oh _oh_. Neal heard a sound like a snort and turned, coming almost face-to-face with a...a _moose_, no—a _reindeer_, his brain supplied. He was face-to-face with _a reindeer_. Something nudged his shoulder, and he could feel warm breath puffed against his neck. He did not turn around—did not _need_ to turn around to know that there were eight—count 'em, _eight_ _**not-very-tiny**_ reindeer all pawing June's roof! The world had become cartoon-y and unfamiliar, except this _was_ familiar, in a way.

"Santa's sleigh," Neal said. "Right? That's Santa's sleigh, and those are the...his, er, reindeer." He reached out and touched the velvety nose of the beast that had blown warm breath on his neck. "And that means you're—"

"See—I _told_ you he could handle it. He's a bright one, this one is," said a stout little blond elf whose hat kept slipping over one eye.

"I don't _feel_ very bright," Neal murmured, obviously unnerved. The elf grinned and stuck out his hand in a friendly gesture.

"Hiya, Neal—I'm Fred."

_Fred_? _Fred_ the _elf_? Weren't elves supposed to have, um, _elf_ names, like Hermie and Barnaby and Legolas—wait, wrong type of elf. Wait—_he _knows _my _name_!_ Come to think of it, so had the elf who had come to get him.

Fred must have divined some of what he was thinking, for he shook his head. "I know," he said. "My parents had to go and give me some _weird_ name, right?" It was hard to know what to say to that.

Neal still felt like he was drunk, dreaming or delusional. "Are you really...I mean, _is_ that Santa's sleigh? The _real_ Santa?" Neal could not believe he was saying this.

There were giggles all around him, but he couldn't quite pinpoint which of the elves (elves!) were chuckling. It sounded like lots of little jingle bells all being shaken together.

"What do _you_ think, buddy?" said a thin, rather crabby-looking elf who was trying to wrestle a playful reindeer back into its harness. "Does it _look_ like I'm doing this for my _health_?"

Neal shook his head, watching as the small man tightened the harness around the great shoulders of the beast, who nudged him affectionately. The man scowled, but pulled a lump of sugar out of a pocket and fed it to the great hoofed animal. In spite of himself, Neal smiled.

"But...Sants'a sleigh. So...where's Santa?" Neal's voice trembled a little. It was amazing, the way the thought of meeting the real (real!) live Santa Claus could make your knees tremble and your heart thump, even after all these years. Of course, maybe that was only if you were perennially on the _naughty_ list. He tried not to think about that. "If you're Santa's elves, then where's—"

"He's not here," said the one holding the reins quickly—too quickly. Neal's Spidey sense activated and he looked at his captors—captors? _Really_?—for signs they were actors, or children or... A reindeer nudged his shoulder, lipped his ear teasingly, and he jumped away. Again, the sound of elves laughing filled the roof, hundreds of bells all jingling.

"Okay, okay—look. I'm up for a joke as much as the next guy, but this is enough. How did you even get the reindeer up here—" The reindeer the sulky elf had been tending a moment ago—not the first one, the _next_ one—broke free and ran across the roof, launching himself into the air. He stalled and turned in the breeze like an expert pilot, then landed nimbly on the far side of the sleigh. Crabby walked over and glared at him, fists on his hips, and the gesture was so reminiscent of Peter that Neal was jolted out of his reverie. Peter...Peter might pull something like this, just to _mess_ with him. But that reindeer _had_ just flown off the roof and back... "What was in that vial?" Neal asked dazedly. "I must be—am I _hallucinating_?"

"You're not hallucinating," said the not-Mozzie elf. His eyes were serious, piercing in their intensity. "This is not a joke. Neal—Mr. Caffrey—we need your help."

"_My_ help?" Neal said, blue eyes wide with shock. "You got...got eight reindeer—and a _sleigh—_up on my landlady's roof and...what on _earth_ do you need _my_ help for?"

Not-Mozzie looked grimmer, still "We need to talk," he said. "But not here."

There was something about traditional Christmas music, classical music, that made you feel like Christmas was imminent, was _upon_ you, was _descending_. Peter sat next to El in the packed auditorium and listened to the chorus of voices singing point and counterpoint, melody, harmony, hallelujah. He heard El's soft sigh of pleasure and turned toward her. Their eyes met and she reached for his hand.

This was nice. This was perfect. Just the two of them at Christmas. Her parents were on a cruise, and there was no one who expected them to drop everything and come now for a visit. They had the holiday to themselves—to spend as freely or as foolishly as they wanted. No plans, no visitors, no schedule. _Heaven_.

After the concert tonight, they'd go home, change out of their formal wear, plug in the tree and plop down on the couch to snuggle. El would have a glass of wine, he'd had a beer or two, and they might not plan anything beyond that, because their time was their own and nothing—and no _one—_had claim to—

"Honey—you're buzzing!" El murmured. So engrossed in his own thoughts was he, Peter hadn't realized his phone was vibrating. The buzzing had communicated itself to Elizabeth through his arm around her, and she'd nudged him. Surreptitiously, he pulled his phone out and glanced at it, then fought the urge to swear. He looked at El and she smiled and shrugged—what was the use in complaining?

"Go," she mouthed.

Peter went.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Part 3 Summary**__: If Neal is going to get the job done, he needs reinforcements. Can Mozzie call on his "inner elf" to help out? In the meantime, Peter ponders the mystery of why Neal's tracks says he's flying over the city of New York, but El always seems to know what to do._

**The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 3**

It had migrated from feeling unreal into feeling _surreal_. Before he had quite realized what was happening, they had bundled him into the sled, piled in around him and the eight reindeer were hauling A over the city. He had stared out through the swirling snowfall, wondering when he might wake up and where he might find himself when he did. He couldn't say how long they were in the air, but it seemed like minutes before they were landing on a snow-covered roof, the elves piling out and dragging him with them down a ladder into what might have been an enormous factory.

But dream or no dream, he had not woken up when they landed, and he was apparently still asleep (or delusional) when the room filled with miniature, pointy-eared people who all crowded and talked and whispered and stared at him while Rasher—the one he'd initially mistaken for Mozzie—prepared to explain.

"Normally," the elf began, "we take care of our own, but sometimes we have to have specialized help."

"Specialized help?" Neal repeated dumbly.

"Yeah. We're—we're primarily _toy_-makers. I mean, we make the occasional gadget or gizmo, but we're mostly about the kids. Santa's big on the kids." There were murmurs of assent all around. "But every now and then we need help from...from an expert."

Neal couldn't think of anything he knew about toys that might prove useful. Forgeries, fake identities, safe-cracking—yes, but _toys? _ He felt out of his depth, despite being the tallest person in the room.

"Look guys—," he began. A couple of pointed hats and several pairs of pointed ears stopped and _looked_ at him. One on the left had a cupid's bow of a mouth, and another behind her had short blond braids and the longest eyelashes he had ever seen over sea-green eyes. "Um, guys and, um, _gals—_look, I think there's been some sort of mistake. I'm not the right guy."

"You _are_ the right guy. You agreed to help Santa—yes?" Rasher demanded. The stared up at him, patient but unmoved.

"Yes. I mean, I agreed to help Mozzie give out Santa's toys to the kids," Neal admitted. A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Oh my gosh—were those toys really from _Santa_? I thought..." He trailed off, not sure _what_ he thought anymore.

"Some of them. Lots of people help this time of year—making donations, collecting food, you know, but Santa always tries to slip in a little extra for the kids who don't have moms _or_ dads."

Neal's expression softened. He hadn't exactly scored high in the parent department, but at least he'd _had_ parents. "That's really great," he murmured.

"Darn tootin' it is," Rasher said proudly. "But the important this is, you agreed to help _Santa_. We're not allowed to ask for your help unless you really volunteered to help. It's in the rules—"

"Don't bother him with the rules," Crabby snapped. "Just _ask_ him."

"But," Neal interjected, his mind awhirl. "I'm not even—I mean, _surely_ you have other guys—guys who aren't on the, er, _naughty_ list who would be glad to, um, help you?" He thought of Peter, then of Jones, but the image of Jones in an elf suit was too much for his overloaded senses.

"What makes you think you're on the naughty list?" the portly blond elf asked. Neal's certainty—which had been unsettled more than once in the past half-hour—finally deserted him. "Um," he mumbled. "I guess I sort of figured I was because—"

"Look," said the one with the goatee, Togoth, the one who had helped him fasten his seat belt. "You're the guy—the _only_ guy who can do this. You _have_ to help us get Santa back."

"Get Santa_ back_?" said Neal. "What do you mean, _back_? I thought you brought me here to _meet_ Santa. What's happened to Santa?"

"He's been kidnapped," one of the elves quavered. He looked young, and very unhappy. One of the girl elves put her arm around his shoulders and patted him. "Jack Frost took him and won't give him back."

"Jack Frost? The guy who paints windows with—"

"That's the one!" he cried excitedly, while several more exclaimed.

"He knows!"

"He knows _everything!_"

"I _knew_ he could help us!"

"See—_told_ you," Fred said. "I told you he'd know _all about it!_"

"No, wait...I just... All about _what_?" Neal began, but was drowned out by the clamor.

"Help us!

"Please! You _have_ to! The children will be so disappointed."

"You must!"

"I know you can—Santa _said_ you could!"

"Santa said-" Neal began, but the chorus intensified.

"Please!"

"Oh, please—we need Santa back so we can deliver all of the—"

"You _have_ to help us! You just _have_ to!"

They pooled around him, desperate, earnest, looking up a him with pleading in their eyes. Even _Mozzie_ couldn't stand proof against this much cuteness at one time.

"Wait," Neal said, holding his hands up. "One at a time. Jack Frost has kidnapped _Santa_?"

"Yes!" said Togoth. "He's—he's done it before."

"Wait—so he's...this has happened _before_?"

"A couple of times, at least," mumbled Crabby. "He—Jack gets all upset, you know? Santa's got the good job, the recognition, the kids _love_ him. Jack gets to paint people's windows and watch his artwork disappear before most folks are really awake. Kind of bites."

In spite of himself, Neal smiled. "Yeah. It's hard when your art isn't appreciated," he said dryly. A couple of elves shot him uncertain looks, and he continued. "But...but that's no reason to go _kidnapping_ people. You said he's done this before—how did you get Santa back _those_ times?"

"Well," said Rasher, "Santa's magical, you know?"

"Of course he is," murmured Neal.

"What was that?" asked a brunette elf with blue eyes that made Neal think of El.

"Nothing," Neal muttered, sighing. "I was just...nothing."

"So, usually, Santa can just, you know, _magic_ himself out."

"He can get into some awfully small places," said Fred. "You know, chimneys and such."

But Neal had picked up on the nuance. "_Usually._ You said _usually_. What about the _other_ times?"

"Yes, well, sometimes we, um, put together a team...to, um, break Santa out. If he, you know, _needs_ us," Togoth said, somewhere between abashed and delighted.

Neal couldn't help himself. A huge grin bloomed on his face. "Break the big guy out? Like a S.W.A.T. Team?"

"Yeah," said Rasher. "But only if we get the safe word. Then we know he needs us."

When Rasher said "safe word" Neal felt suddenly back on familiar turf. "So, did you get the safe word _this_ time?"

"Uh huh. About a half-hour ago. Probably cause it's Christmas eve and all."

"And Santa's magic isn't working?"

"Huh uh," said the young, unhappy elf. "This time, Jack's using _technology_."

Neal's forehead puckered. "What do you mean, _technology_?"

"He's using a...it's like a box you can put things in that won't open." The concept was foreign to them—nobody ever locked up _anything_ at the North Pole. Why _would_ they?

"You mean a _safe_?" Neal asked.

They looked at each other, murmuring, shrugging.

"Like a cage sort of thing? A big box?"

"Yes!"

"See—I told you he would know!"

"Rasher was right."

"_Santa_ was right."

But Neal was trying to shut out the chatter. "Is it, um, a big box with bars going up and down?"

"Yes! And Santa can't open it with regular magic—"

"—the team couldn't get him out. He said-"

"Santa said we needed someone who knows about locks."

"Santa said we needed-"

"Santa said you could help us, and he knew you would 'cause you already agreed to help give out presents with your friend."

It was almost too much to take in. "Santa told you...to get _me_?"

"Santa said you were the best," said Rasher.

"Santa said _I'm_ the best?" Neal said, his face breaking into a huge grin.

"He would know," said Crabby.

"_Told_ you," said Fred. His satisfaction was almost palpable.

"So...will you?'

"_Could_ you?"

"You _have_ to," one pleaded. "Please—we _need_ Santa to deliver all the gifts before morning!"

"Please!"

"Please, please, please, with a candy cane on-"

"Okay, okay," Neal said. Dream or no dream, real or surreal, they needed his help. The least he could do was try. "Okay—just...just, okay. I'll help." A chorus of cheers went up, a cacophony of bell sounds, but he shushed them with his hands and they quieted. "I'll try, okay. But I need to know everything you know about this Jack Frost, and I need to know everything you can tell me about this safe."

"It's an Elsafe—does that help?" Rasher asked.

Neal whistled. "Yeah." He looked at them and took a deep breath. "I'm...I'm going need my friend."

There was a hush, as deep and dark as midnight. Startled, Neal looked around, but none of them would meet his eyes, not even Fred.

"The U_nbeliever_," one finally whispered.

"What? Mozzie? He's not...he's not an _unbeliever_," Neal insisted. "He—he had a bad start, you know? He was abandoned as an orphan—"

"He was _not_ abandoned," bristled a rather imposing red-headed girl elf with long, coppery braids. "He was left in VERY capable hands. Mr. Jeffries has been on our helper list for a _long_ time."

"Mr. Jeffries is on the...of course he is," murmured Neal. "But look—Mozzie. I need him. If we're going to pull this off, I need the most devious mind I can find. Can you get him?"

"We'll get 'em," said Togoth. He looked at the red-headed female elf. "C'mon, Gerda—you _know_ you want to see how he turned out." He nodded at the seat next to him in the sleigh. She rolled her eyes and climbed in.

"So the system's still working?" Peter asked, one hand on his phone and one hand covering his other ear. "Are any _other_ anklets—?" He stopped and listened a moment. "I see. Just _his_. Then how the devil did he turn it off? I thought—" He listened some more. "What do you _mean_ it's still on? It_ can't_ still be one because it says he was flying over the city less than an hour ago. No—_not_ in an airplane. Right over west 59th, just above the—yes, I'll hold."

El came out of the concert hall and looked at him, sympathy and exasperation on her face.

"Neal?" she mouthed.

Peter threw is hands up in a "Who _else_?" gesture. "Yes," he whispered. 'His anklets gone all wonky and—what? Yes—I'm still here. You...you _what_? T hat's ridiculous. That's...that's _impossible._ You can't _confirm_ that—it's _impossible_."

Peter listened again, occasionally trying to interrupt, but it was no use. The Marshall's office was not in the mood—on Christmas Eve, no less—to dispatch a marshal to figure out where one solitary C.I. was, a C.I,, they hinted strongly, who wasn't even really _their_ problem anymore, and whose anklet was probably just getting interference from all the extra air traffic from all the Christmas travelers.

"Yeah," Peter said at last. "Well, you _do_ that," he huffed, and thumbed off the phone.

El joined him, slipping her hands beneath his elbow. "What now?" she asked. "The anklet not working?"

"It says it is. The Marshall's office says it is. But the data _also _says Neal was _flying_ over the roof line half an hour ago."

El's pretty face registered confusion. "What about _now_?" she asked. Peter could have kissed her—and did. She didn't pout, didn't whine, just acted interested in what was going on.

Peter looked at her, and she smiled and raised her eyebrows. Without another word, they gathered her wrap and left.

"Look, Jack—I know we've had our differences, but we're both grown men. Don't you think we should handle our differences like men? Why involve the children? The haven't done anything to deserve—"

"That's absolutely _right_!" Jack Frost shrilled. "They haven't done _anything_ to deserve all the things you do for them! They're mean and rotten and selfish and unappreciative!"

"They're children," countered Santa gently. "They're still leaning how to appreciate things."

"They _never_ appreciate what you do for them," Jack muttered, but his face was turned away, and he didn't seem to be speaking to his captive anymore. Despite the trouble he was in, despite the trouble his old acquaintance was _causing_, Santa's heart softened a little. Poor Jack. He really had gotten sort of a bum rap as assignments go. Still, there was no reason to take it out on the _children_. And they'd been _so good_ this year. Santa sighed, wondering when help would come.

He knew it would come. He _knew_ it. He just didn't know _when_.

He heard Mozzie shouting before he saw him, but when they finally hustled him into the room, Neal sighed with relief. He hadn't been entirely certain that Mozzie could be found—even by _elves_—unless he wanted to be found. But they'd probably waylaid him at _his_ apartment, which somehow seemed apropos. He walked over and grinned at Mozzie's umbrageous face.

"Neal! Neal—I _demand_ to know—" He stared around him, at the room full of Chistmas-y goodness, at the elves, at Neal's familiar face. "Oh my god, it's _real_!" Mozzie was somewhere between indignation and delight, helped along no doubt by the fact that he was now the second tallest person in the room. "I'm really going to meet Santa!"

Neal's cheer fled and Mozzie picked up on it immediately.

"What? What's wrong? You've got that face again."

"They didn't tell you?" Neal asked.

"We _tried_," Togoth muttered, squinting up at Neal. "He was shouting too much."

Mozzie colored. "I'm not overly fond of...heights, and flying reindeer and sleighs without windshields..." he muttered, then remember Neal's question. "What? They didn't tell me _what_? And where's Santa? I _demand_ to see Santa! I have a few bones to pick with—"

"Well, you're going to have to wait until we _rescue_ him," Neal said patiently. Mozzie goggled.

"_Rescue_ him? Somebody's captured _Santa_?" He looked at the elves accusingly. "How could this _happen_?"

"It happens every-so-often," said Fred. "Not usually a big deal. Box traps and rope traps set by naughty little kids."

"Or inquisitive ones," Mozzie mumbled.

"What?" said Fred.

"Nothing. I was just—nevermind. So what's the problem _this_ time." As _totally cool_ as this was, he was about to be offended that he'd been called in to outwit mischievous rugrats.

"It's Jack Frost," grumbled Togoth. "He's still steamed because Santa got the big job, so every-so-often he makes a little trouble."

"Jack Frost?" asked Mozzie. "They guy who makes all the window patterns?"

"See," said one of the female elves to the elf next to her. "People _know_ who Jack is. I told Santa he was just feeling sorry for himself."

"Yeah, Moz—Jack Frost, the _other_ magical being we're going to have to deal with." Sarcasm was dripping from Neal's words, but Mozzie was too excited to notice. The little man clasped his hands together and grinned like a kid in a candy shop.

"What?" he asked, completely distracted by two elves walking past with a candy cane as big around as a tree trunk..

"Moz—a little help here. Could you, you know, _focus_ a little?"

Moz sobered, or tried to, but he couldn't quite stop grinning. "So, um, Jack Frost has captured Santa? And we're going to—what? Rescue him?"

"Something like that," Neal said. "But there's a twist. Magic is involved—that's not the problem—

"Of course not," Mozzie murmured, but Neal ignored him.

"It's the technology that's the issue."

"What do you mean?"

"He's—Jack's got Santa in an Elsafe," Neal said.

Mozzie made a face. "Their tough," he said. "Too bad it's not an Elfsafe, because then it'd be safe for the...never mind. That one didn't work."

"No," Neal said repressively, but Mozzie was already moving on.

"But they don't usually make things that big," Mozzie said. "Strong, yes, but not big enough to hold a...a person."

"Rasher thinks it was a special order."

Mozzie considered. They had been known to make some highly specific safes, so it was possible. "Well, big isn't the problem. It's the locking mechanism, which is a—"

"Two-person job," Neal finished. "I know."

"And you thought of _me_?"

Mozzie's expression was hard to read, and Neal felt uncertain for the first time in a least a half-hour. "Look, I didn't know—"

Mozzie _hugged_ him, actually _hugged_ him. "_Thank_ you, mon frere," Mozzie exclaimed. "Let's go see if we can borrow another set of lock picks."

She drove while he sat in the passenger side and pulled up the data.

"Good thing I put Neal's Christmas present in the car," El said.

"Christmas present? I didn't _get_ Neal a—"

"Yes you did."

"I _didn't_. I didn't get him one _last_ year—"

"Yes, you _did_," Elizabeth said patiently.

"How do I not know this?" Peter asked, his mouth pursed in consternation.

"Because you're always too busy to shop," she said matter-of-factly. "Plus, you hate it."

"If I've been getting Neal Christmas presents, why didn't he mention it to me?"

"Because he knew—"

"Because he knew _you_ bought them." Peter threw his hand up in the air. "So my C.I. Has been getting Christmas presents from _me_ that he knows _you_ bought. How does that make _me_ look?"

"Better than not buying a gift at all," Elizabeth said serenely.

Peter turned and looked at her. "Whose side are you on, anyway?" he asked.

El leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm on _your_ side," she said. "I'm on the _right_ side."

"Well..."

"And Neal's on your _left_ side," she couldn't resist adding.

Peter grunted. "_Neal_," he said, "was flying over the city—according to his tracking anklet, anyway."

"It's been wrong before," El soothed. "But _you're_ usually right." She reached across the car and patted his leg affectionately.

Peter said nothing. It was hard to argue with _that_.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Part 4 Summary:**__ Neal and Mozzie plan to storm the castle and Peter storms into Neal's apartment, but at least Peter and Neal are finally talking. _

**The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 4**

"So—from what Gerda says, they can get us _in_, but they can't do the safe. How is _that_ possible?"

"They're used to magic, not technology," Neal said, as though that made sense. "So, they're going to do the magic part—"

"The whole flying-through-the-air-going-down-the-chimney part." Mozzie tried to sound casual and collected, but he was not especially fond of flying, and he wasn't crazy about small enclosed spaces.

"Right, and we're going to do the technology part."

"But what about Santa?"

"What _about_ Santa? If we get him out in time, he's going to be doing the delivering-presents part."

"I _know_! This is so cool! But that's not what I meant."

"What _did_ you mean?"

"I meant—is Santa okay? He's been locked up by an old enemy who used to be his friend—"

"It _happens_," Neal muttered.

"My point exactly. So while we're picking the lock, what's Santa going to be doing? Can he handle Jack?"

"I don't know. The elves seem pretty nonchalant about him, I'm not sure what to think about this Jack Frost character. We don't know much about him, really."

"He's never _hurt_ Santa. At least, that's what Togoth said."

"They all said that. It's true, but he's escalating. He sounds unpredictable, maybe even unstable."

"Eh, _artists_," said Mozzie airily, garnering a glare from Neal.

"Ha ha. Very funny."

"Well, you can sort of see his point," Mozzie said. "One guys does all the front work, gets all the recognition..."

"Wears the anklet..." Neal supplied.

"What? _No_..." Mozzie said, coloring a little.

"Trade you any time, Moz," Neal said shortly. "But that's a conversation for another day."

The worked in an uneasy silence for a few moments, pouring over the blueprints. The safe they were going to crack was larger—much larger—than the usual manufactured by Elsafe, but there was no reason to think the locking mechanism would have been changed significantly. People tended to stick with what they knew. Mozzie must have been thinking along the same lines.

"Speaking of the anklet," Mozzie said. "Any word from your ball-and-chain?"

Neal shook his head, then reached down and turned back the edge of his boot. It had taken some time for reality—such as it was—to kick in, and even longer for him to think about the anklet. Since it had occurred to him, he had been determinedly _not _ thinking about it. "It's still working—at least, it says so."

"I wonder where it says you are now?" Mozzie asked.

Neal shrugged, trying not to worry, but failing miserably.

"I have no idea," he said truthfully, "but Peter will probably burst through the door any minute."

"Well, if he _does_, " Mozzie smirked, "I'm pretty sure Gerda can _take_ him."

"Neal, so help me, if you're in there—!" No one answered, so Peter turned the doorknob and went on in, El on his heels.

Peter wasn't sure _what_ he expected to find, but he'd been not-so-secretly hoping to find Neal holed up, drinking wine and painting. Still, he was hardly shocked when there was no disheveled-artist Neal who met his sight when the door swung open.

He stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, but El walked past him, looking around. She saw Neal's work clothes laid neatly over the butler, saw the box which had contained the costume sitting on the bed.

"Honey?" she called, just as Peter bent and picked up the discarded felt elf shoes. He turned to face her, holding the shoes by their curled toes. "I think Neal—what on _earth_ are _those_?" she said, laughing.

Peter let out a sigh. "Elf shoes, I think."

"_Elf_ shoes?" El repeated. "I though you said Neal was helping to give out—oh. Oh oh." She tried to hide the smile that crept across her face. "Are you telling me that Neal is dressed up like an _elf_ and delivering presents to children?"

"Mozzie, too."

El's hand rose to her mouth, but could not conceal her broad smile. "I hope someone takes pictures."

Peter grinned faintly, but looked worried, and El sobered. "You're worried, aren't you?"

"I am. Neal's been...well, it's been a rough go lately, you know."

"That's understandable, considering," El said tactfully. "You two are going to have to work this out again, after..."

Peter waved her away, not rudely, but absently, distracted by some stray thought. "I know, I know," he said. They'd certainly _talked_ enough about it, he and El, when he'd lain away and stared at the ceiling for nights on end. "But he seemed...excited about this. He wanted to help with this. That's why he was so crabby about the flu."

"Imagine that," said El. "Not wanting to you come to work and infect everyone."

Peter shot her an annoyed look and she subsided.

"I don't understand why he didn't go and work at the orphanage," Peter murmured.

"Well, do you know he _didn't_?"

Peter stared, then started to swear. "Oh hel...eeeck," he finished, mindful of the season. "I should have started there, I guess."

"He isn't here, his work clothes are here, and I'm pretty sure there's more to his elf costume than those slippers."

"Let's hope so," muttered Peter. He looked unhappy and confounded, and Elizabeth reached out and rubbed his arm.

"So, you want to go check out a Christmas party? I'm already dressed up..."

"Sure," said Peter. "Sounds like a plan."

Fred came up beside Gerda, both of them already suited up for the upcoming mission, and they watched their two visitors going over last-minute instructions with other members of the team. Neal was talking to Togoth and a female elf name Svetlana, gesturing intently. Mozzie was pointing out something on the blueprint to Crabby, whose real name was Cameron.

"Enjoying the view?" teased Fred. Gerda, usually unflappable in the face of almost _anything_, colored a little.

"We don't get many visitors," she said defensively, but Fred was grinning at her, friendly-like. "He _is_ very nice looking, for a human," she admitted, and smiled.

"Don't you think he's a little..._tall_ for you?" Fred asked, nudging her a little. Gerda shushed him, but her brown eyes twinkled.

"He's not _that_ tall." She smiled at him as she walked toward the waiting sleigh.

Fred's forehead wrinkled in consternation, then he looked back toward the two humans fastening tool vests over their garb. The vests were too short and wouldn't lace all the way across their broader chests, but they served the purpose adequately, if unfashionably. He looked at Neal, then Mozzie, and his bushy blond eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

"Oh!" he said. "_Oh..._"

Gerda just looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.

"Well, they were supposed to meet us here to help unload the truck, but when we got here the truck was already unloaded and they weren't here. We thought maybe they had come beforehand." The woman shrugged and smiled.

"I don't think they would have come and left," said Peter.

"Maybe they forgot something?" She saw a line of volunteers arriving with school backpacks stuffed with school supplies. "Oh—hello? Folks—not _this _door," she called. "You want to take those to the door in the back, to the lady in the blue snowflake sweater."

The people carrying the backpacks regrouped and trooped around to the back, and the woman turned back to them. "I'm sorry—what were you saying?"

Peter and El looked at each other. "I was just saying that's a pretty big truck," said Peter. "They must have had _some_ help if they unloaded it."

"Oh, yes," the woman agreed. "We were so happy when we arrived and everything was already unpacked. Well, Mr. Erans has _always_ been like that. If he says something will get done, it gets done. He's never not shown up when he volunteered to come," the woman said. "He's been...he's been like a guardian angel this year, what with donations down and all."

"That's Mozzie," said El. "A real guardian angel."

She took Peter's hand, although he looked like he wanted to say something else, and steered him toward the car.

"El," Peter complained. "I was going to ask them some more—"

"Look, whatever happened to Neal, that's no reason to mess this up for Mozzie. He seems to be doing a good thing here. Let's let sleeping dogs lie."

"What about flying C.I.s?" Peter grumbled.

"I have a feeling," El said, "that somebody's up to something, but I don't think it's Neal."

Peter looked at here in surprise. "I'm listening," he said.

El smiled. "In the car," she said. "I want to look at that tracking record again."

"Okay, remember—when we get there, everybody stay with your partner until we're in," Neal said. "Then, we'll regroup according to task. Does everybody have their equipment?"

There were nods of assent all around, then all of the bright eyes and pointy ears turned up to look at Neal. Neal looked at Mozzie. "You okay, Moz?"

"I'm fine, as long as I don't wake up," said Mozzie, a little catch in his voice. He was nervous about the flying part.

"Don't worry," said Cameron. "If I can wrangle reindeer, I'm not going to let loose of you."

"I'll hold you to that," Mozzie said, striving to sound brave, then looked at Neal and nodded. "Okay—let's get this show on the road."

They piled into the sleigh. Togoth waited until everyone had their seatbelts on, waited until the reindeer had stopped prancing excitedly, then snapped the reins.

"Get on with you then!" he shouted. "Off to the Crystal Castle."

***.

"See—it's like it's just hovering there," Peter said. "It was moving earlier, but for the past hour and three-quarters, the signal—it's like it's frozen directly above the city, just...hovering."

"I should have asked this earlier, but have you tried calling Neal?"

"Of course I have," Peter said, although he had had to work himself up to it. Neal had been increasingly touchy about being checked up on, and Peter had tried to couch his check-ins in positive terms instead of suspicious ones. "It's been going straight to voicemail."

"Did you leave him a message?"

"Did I—? No. I didn't leave him a message."

"Maybe you should," said El. She knew Peter was worried that Neal was poised on the edge of disaster—_again_, and she knew that Peter's instincts where Neal were concerned were usually spot-on, but these last few months had taken their toll on everyone's certainties. She remembered a time when all of them—Neal, Mozzie, Peter, Jones, Diana, and even she and Sara had been on the same page, had managed to work together amicably, but that seemed like centuries ago. They were trying to work their way back, but it was slow going, and neither Peter _or_ Neal had been at the top of their game.

Peter shook his head, obviously thinking the same thoughts. "I don't know," he said. "What am I supposed to say, 'Hey, Neal, your anklet says your flying over the city like Superman. What's up?"

"You could wish him Merry Christmas, tell him we're going to stop off at his place after the concert. Then maybe he'll call you?"

"I don't—well, it's worth a try. If I don't find out what's going on soon, I'll have to make an official report," Peter said grimly. "We don't have much wiggle room any more, not since..." He did not finish, pulling out his phone instead. He thumbed the number and waited.

Neal felt the phone vibrate against his chest. He'd tucked it into an inside pocket of the vest, but he pulled it out and looked at it, surprised. It had not rung—not once—since he'd been absconded with by Santa's little band of marauders, and he pulled it out now and looked at it, surprised to see that there were several missed calls, all from Peter.

"The Suit?" asked Mozzie. It was a particular form a magic that made riding inside the sleigh remarkably similar to riding in a car. Despite the snow blowing all around them, the occupants of the sleigh remained in a warm, quiet bubble, undisturbed by the howl of the wind or the cold, but _not—_unfortunately—undisturbed by cell phones.

"Yeah," said Neal. He looked miserably at the phone.

"Might be better to take it," Mozzie suggested, concerned that worry about Peter might put Neal off his game. Neal nodded, flipping the phone open.

"Hello Peter," he said, and tried to sound cheerful.

"Neal?"

"Yes, Peter. That's how a telephone works. You dial my number, I answer. I say 'hello,' you say 'hello' and then—"

"Don't be such a wiseass," Peter snapped. "Where are you anyway? I called earlier."

"Oh, uh—huh. Yeah, I see that," Neal said. He sounded remarkably casual, maybe a little annoyed. "I told you I was supposed to help deliver some gifts. What do you need? Have we gotten called in on a case?"

"No." He could hear the hesitation in Peter's voice, feel the suspicion seeping through the phone. "El and I—we were going to come by and drop off your, um, Christmas present."

"Tell Elizabeth that's very thoughtful," Neal said. "You can go by if you want. You've got keys to my place. I'm not there, so if you wanted to snoop—" He was pushing every button he could to get a rise out of Peter and keep him from asking too many questions.

"_Neal_." There was a warning edge to Peter's voice to match the bitter edge in Neal's. Elizabeth flinched from the sound, unhappy for both of them.

"What? What do you want me to do, Peter?" Neal said, sounding exasperated and put upon. "I promised to help Santa, but if you _insist_—"

"Keep your shorts on," Peter said, and Neal fought the urge to tell him he _wasn't wearing any_. "Look," said Peter, sounding conciliatory. "Something's up with the tracker, okay? It says you're flying over the city."

Neal laughed. "Really? You must be joking!" He felt a cold sweat break out over his back.

"I'm not joking," Peter said somberly. "Look, I don't know what's up, but I don't want you to get...if the anklet's acting up, it could come back and bite you."

"You want me to go _home_? There's nobody there to alibi me."

"Where's Mozzie?"

"Here _with_ me—he's the one who got me into this," Neal said. Mozzie scowled at him but Neal shrugged and made a placating gesture.

"Anybody _else_ with you?" Peter asked.

"Santa's little elves," Neal said dryly. It was too soon to be funny.

"Well, just stay out of trouble, okay? Can you _do _that? It's Christmas Eve, and—"

"And there are lots of presents that need to be delivered, okay? How about I call you tomorrow, Peter."

It was something, to have talked to Neal. Peter thought he might be able to go home and get some rest, at least.

"Do that," Peter said. "And Neal—don't be a hero or anything, okay? There's a lot at stake."

"Don't I know it," Neal muttered, and hung up the phone.

The elves had listened to the conversation with more than passing interest—privacy was nonexistent in the sleigh, squashed as they were.

Neal tried not to look guilty or embarrassed or...much of anything, his face settling into a polite non-expression.

"Your friend is worried about you," said Svetlana. Her expression was more curious than anything else.

"He's my handler," Neal said lightly. "It's his job to worry about me."

"Yes," said Rasher. "I can tell he takes the job very seriously."

"You can say that," muttered Mozzie.

"What?" asked Svetlana, but Mozzie shook his head.

"Don't mind me," he said.

"Your _friend_ is worried about you," said Fred, and the emphasis was impossible to ignore.

"Yes," Neal said shortly. "I know he is."

Then they were touching down, and there was no more time for conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Part 5 Summary:**__ The stakes have never been higher, but can Neal and Mozzie pull off a scam and a scheme when magic is part of the equation?_

**The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 5**

"It's not really a castle," Rasher had explained. "He just likes to call it that."

"Understandable. I like to name places, too," Mozzie murmured. He stood up and clambered over the edge of the sleigh, glad to be on solid ground, even if it was covered with ice. He saw Neal get out and almost slip as well. The elves seemed to have less trouble keeping their balance, probably because their center of gravity was so low, Neal thought sourly. He looked around, but Fred was already there. He held out his soft, pudgy hand and Neal took it, holding tight. This was the part that he had no control over, and had to trust the elves to do what they did. Neal felt his feet rise up from the ground—not much—but just enough to make it possible to walk and not leave marks in the snow and ice. He saw Mozzie holding with both hands to Cameron's arm, saw his friend also drifting along toward the blue house that shimmered like an ice sculpture in the moonlight.

"Once we're in, we want to work fast," Neal said. The elves nodded grimly. "We don't want Jack to have any time to move him or pull a fast one. We can't hope for the element of surprise—he has to know we're coming—"

"Well, he knows _we're_ coming," Rasher said. "He knows another team will come, but he won't be expecting _you_."

"That's good," Mozzie murmured.

"That _is_ good," said Gerda. "He won't hurt you, but he might slow you down a bit. Don't let him touch you—his grip will stop you in your tracks."

'This just gets better and better," Mozzie murmured.

"They told us this," Neal muttered. "Stop whining. The sooner we get Santa out, and sooner you can ask him—"

"Shhhh!"

They subsided, skimming toward the dark bulk of the house. Without effort, they ascended skyward when they got close, then lined up in pairs at the chimney.

"If you're holding on tight, you can do what _I_ do," said Cameron. "So hold on tight, and down...we..._goooo_!" They disappeared down the chimney. Even watching it happen, Neal disbelieved his eyes. He swallowed nervously and his hand tightened on Fred's hand.

"We'll go next," said Fred. "Right after Gerda."

Gerda disappeared down the smokestack, then Neal felt Fred's hand tightened on his and—and it was like taking a very fast, rather smoky elevator, very quickly, to the ground floor. He almost fell when he landed but caught himself, and then Mozzie reached out and steadied him. They emerged from a fireplace bedroom, assuming Jack would expect them to use the main one. In seconds, the others had joined them, and the two humans couldn't help but grin. The adrenaline was flowing now, the caper was _on_.

"Let _do_ this," said Neal, and led the way as they crept down the hall.

Rasher and his team had gone to the left, Cameron and his team had gone to the right. That left the two of them to get ready to open the safe once Jack had been neutralized. They hugged the wall, easing down the long hallway on feet as silent as a tomb. Nothing moved, nothing stirred, and though they knew two teams of elves were infiltrating the home at this precise moment, they heard nothing—which was, as Togoth had reminded them, what they should _expect_ to hear.

"He's in there," Mozzie whispered. "The first team said the safe is in there, and Jack has Santa locked up in it. As soon as the team gets Jack, we've got to break Santa out."

"I _know_ Mozzie. That's the plan. I got it. I'm just waiting for the—"

"Why wait?" boomed a cold voice from behind the door they were leaning on. "You might as well come on in."

"So much for not expecting _us_," Mozzie muttered.

Neal and Mozzie looked at each other, hesitating, when the voice came again. "We're just in here waiting for the rest of the group—they _are_ in the house somewhere, I know. Why don't you come and join us? There's someone here who's been _very_ anxious to see you."

They exchanged looks again. Neal shrugged. Mozzie sighed. They pushed the door open and walked in.

"Well, well, well, Mr. Caffrey," came the deep, cold voice. "Welcome to the Crystal Castle. You're a fair sight out of your radius, aren't you?"

It is hard to be a tough guy when you're not wearing pants, but Neal had managed before and he managed now.

"Desperate times, " he said, and smiled pleasantly. "You understand."

The dark head turned toward Mozzie. "Good to see you too, Mr. Winters. _Nice name_, by the way."

"Thank you," Mozzie said. "I...don't really use it anymore."

Jack Frost was not an imposing figure. He was, in fact, a little shorter than average height, spare and lean, with clean-chiseled features and blue-black hair that lay where it was put. His eyes were blue, more or less, but so pale as to appear like little ice chips behind his dark lashes. Surprisingly, his skin, while pale, was rosy. He smiled at them, lips pulled back from his teeth, radiating confidence and hostility.

Santa Claus hailed them from behind the bars of the large cage which had been set up near the empty hearth in the great room. "Boys!" he said heartily. "Neal! Theodore! I knew you fellas would step up. Nice to see you! _Nice_ to see you! See, Jack? They'll keep coming until you release me. You can't keep me here forever, you know." His appeal was warm, non-threatening and gentle. Neal admired the way the he approached his one-time friend.

"I don't _have_ to keep you hear _forever_, "Jack said silkily. "I just have to keep you hear until tomorrow morning, when all the children of the world will realize that you're not coming, that there _wasn't any point_ in trying to be good all year."

"_That's_ not why the children are good, Jack," Santa protested. "They're good because children are naturally sweet and kind. You just have to—"

"I _don't_ have to!" Jack shouted. "I don't have to do _anything_. _You_ have to listen to_ me_ this time. Your _magic_ doesn't work here_,_ and if _this—_" He gestured dismissively at Neal and Mozzie. "—is the best your team could _find _to break you out, I think there are going to be _lots_ of disappointed children tomorrow."

Neal looked at Mozzie out of the corner of his eye and Mozzie lowered his eyelids a fraction. He'd heard it too, heard the rage behind the suave voice. This man might be magical, and he might seem like a harmless graffiti artist, but he was driven and determined. It would not do to treat him as though he weren't serious or dangerous.

"What makes you think we're here to break him out?" Neal asked. Behind his glasses, Mozzie's eyes widened, but he did his best to play cool. He was not a skillful liar on his own, but he could follow Neal's lead almost anywhere.

"Yeah," he said. "What makes you think _that_?"

"Don't play innocent with me," Jack sneered.

"I can promise you, innocent is something I rarely strive for," Neal murmured, and smiled his brilliant con-man smile. Jack eyes him suspiciously, but Neal has been standing proof against Peter's suspicions _and_ looks for a long time, and he didn't blink.

"Well, I know you came with with a team of elves—"

"True," said Neal, and Santa sighed, looking disappointed.

"—and I know they brought _you_ here to do what _they_ weren't able to do."

Neal grin broadened. "That's understandable," he said, sounding inordinately pleased with himself. "_Lots_ of people hire me to do things they aren't able to do." Mozzie was afraid to look at Santa directly, worried about what effect Neal's bragging might have on the unrepentant gift-giver. "Mozzie and I—we do things other people can't _all the tim_e."

"Thanks," Mozzie muttered under his breath.

Jack was watching Neal closely, not sure where this was going.

"And _that_ means," Neal continued, "that—right now—we have a _lot_ more in common with _you_ than we do with the old man over there." He pointed his chin at Santa, who was watching him narrowly through the bars of the cage.

Mozzie did his best not to faint.

"So, despite what we may have been _hired_ to do, I'm actually here to talk to you, artist-to-artist, about getting what you really deserve."

"You'd lie as soon as not," Jack Frost humphed, but his eyes gleamed with interest..

"He's telling the truth," Santa said, and Jack whirled around and stared at him.

"But...but-"

"_He_ might lie, but I _can't_—"

"You _can't_!" Jack echoed, amazed. He turned and looked at Neal, his pale eyes glittering. "And if _you_ can't lie, then _he_ must be telling the truth! Interesting," Jack said. "I find this very _interesting_."

"I find _this_ interesting—your situation, I mean," Neal said. He didn't know what to make of the unexpected "assist" from Santa Claus, but he took the help and ran with it.

"How do you _mean?_" Jack said, coming closer. Neal was watching his hands. He remembered what the elves had told him—one touch and you could be frozen in place until you thawed.

"I _mean_," Neal said, "that is seems a little unfair, don't you think, that people like us—artists and visionaries—so often have to live off the crumbs of others' appreciation?"

"Crumbs is right," Jack muttered bitterly. He pointed at Santa, who had stepped back from the front of the cage and was watching the interplay intently. "He has no idea what it's like."

"Of course not. I mean, _look_ at you—a philanthropist, an artist, sharing your work with the world every chance you get," Neal said.

Behind Jack, Cameron and his team had slipped in the back window. Although the window was open to the outside, no cold, no snow was coming through. _It must be like the sleigh magic, that kept you warm and toasty as you flew_, Neal thought.

"It's true," said Jack eagerly. "Every chance I get, and I don't get much notice. It's not like the weathermen _ever_ know what they're talking about."

"I _know. _ Your canvas is _huge_, and yet your attention to detail is _amazing_!" Neal said. He walked closer to his host, but at an angle—an angle opposite the corner the elves were readying themselves for a rush. "How do you _do_ that? How do you make every _single_ piece perfect and different, suited exactly to the moment?"

"Well, the magic _helps_, of course," Jack Frost said, his cheeks flushing with pleasure. "But I do my own detail work, you know."

"I _didn't_ know," Neal said. "Did _you_ know that Mozzie?"

Mozzie had been working to keep his eyes from wandering over to their friends, but he answered his cue like a pro. "I _didn't_ know that," Mozzie said. "And I'd like to ask you, Mr. Frost, if you've ever considered _marketing_ your work. I have friends in galleries all over the world, and I know a few people who work with imports and exports—"

"You know, I _have_ wondered about that," Jack said. "Of course, we're not allowed to use our magic for personal gain..."

"It's not personal gain if you're just sharing your art with the world—am I right, Moz?"

"Oh, um, yes—I mean, I don't see how they could fault you if you're just trying to put your art out in some form that people could enjoy all year. I was thinking _glassware_, maybe? Have you talked to any art brokers...?"


	6. Chapter 6

**_Part 6 Summary: _**_Friendship causes a change of heart as well as a change of plans. Will Neal and Mozzie make it home in time for Christmas dinner?_

**The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 6**

With Jack Frost distracted, it was over almost before it started, but not before Fred had been caught and partially frozen by those grasping hands. The elves managed to subdue the errant magical being, who howled and thrashed and threatened before becoming docile and sobbing in misery and disappointment. They tied his hands behind his back and sat him back away from the cage where Neal and Mozzie worked, but gently, and they weren't any rougher with him than was absolutely necessary. Neal looked over once and saw Gerda reaching out to wipe his angry tears away and patting him consolingly. Some of the others seemed to be encouraging him or soothing him as well. It reminded him of something, but he didn't have time to think about it too much.

"All right, boys—you're _on_, I think, and the sooner the better," Santa said. "I've got a full night ahead of me." He pulled out his pocket watch and tut-tutted, then came up close to them, watching as they worked together to leverage the lock tumblers open.

"I suppose I'm going to have to have some of the elves learn this," he grumbled good-naturedly. "I have to say, he's getting more and more inventive with his traps. Keeps me on my toes, _that's_ for sure."

Surprise made Neal and Mozzie smile, amused by the way he had taken his captivity in stride.

"There are lots of models," Moz said, making a face as he turned the lockpicks a hair, "but most of them operate on similar principles." He looked at Neal. "We could do a training session...?"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," Santa boomed. He laughed, and the sound, while joyful, didn't sound much like "Ho, ho, ho."

_So,_ Neal thought, _not __**all**__ of the legends were true._ He wondered how many things he "knew" about Santa were fabricated and how many were based in reality. _Well, __**sort of**__ reality_, he reminded himself.

Santa continued to watch their work closely, clearly fascinated. There was obviously more to this than simple knowledge—it seemed to require a good bit of finesse as well. "We'll have to have you boys back up here when...well, when all of this is over."

Neal shot a look at Jack Frost, who was drinking a cup of hot cocoa held by Cameron. The terminally disgruntled elf was frowning, but he was careful and solicitous with the mug as he held it to Jack's lips, one hand resting on the back of Jack's sleek head, Neal felt someone's eyes on him and turned to find both Moz _and_ Santa looking at him. He turned back to the work at hand, his cheeks hot.

The lock was tricky, but nothing they couldn't handle, and within seven-and-a-half minutes, Santa was free and embracing them in turn.

_Wow, Santa gives excellent hugs, _thought Mozzie.

"You're not so bad yourself," Santa said, and Mozzie all but jumped out of his skin at having his thoughts so easily read.

"Splendid job, my boys," Santa said. He turned and opened his arms to his loyal elves. "And a hearty thank you to my faithful little friends." They came and hugged the big man fondly, relief on their faces, and Neal and Mozzie grinned at each other. Santa walked over and stood next to Jack, then pulled him to his feet. To the surprise of the two humans, he pulled Jack close and gave him a big hug, too. The other man sniffed and resisted, but eventually leaned into the hug, willing to be comforted, even by his enemy. Santa untied his wrists, then took Jack by the shoulders and set him back from him.

"Jack," he said firmly. "You've _got_ to stop this, you know. It's not healthy, and it's never going to work."

"It _almost_ worked," Jack pouted, rubbing his wrists. Santa laughed and clapped him on the back.

"It was much better than your last attempt, I'll give you that. But you _can't_ stop me from delivering presents to the children. It's not right."

"I know that," Jack said morosely. "I don't really want to stop your stupid gift-giving frenzy."

"I know," Santa murmured placatingly. "I know."

"I just want my _own_ work to be recognized and appreciated. Night after night, sometimes for _weeks_, I work my fingers off, and does _anyone _ever leave _me_ cookies?"

"I'm sure they would if they knew you were coming," Santa soothed. He squeezed his old friend's shoulders affectionately. "Come by tomorrow night for supper with me and the Missus," Santa wheedled. "She never gets to see you anymore."

"I don't want to come," Jack whined. "I...she'll be angry with me."

"She _won't_ be. _I_ won't be. Come for supper."

Jack pouted but eventually nodded, dispirited but not fighting any more. Rasher began to herd them all out toward the sleigh, happy to be the second-in-command again. Santa walked with his arms around several elves, and Neal and Mozzie bought up the rear, full of adrenaline and accomplishment and ready to go home. Jack watched them go, beaten and reproachful.

"I thought, for once, someone was actually on _my_ side," he said as they passed.

Neal hesitated. "I—we just want to see the right thing done. Santa has a job to do. You have to understand that."

Jack's sigh was fathoms deep. "I do."

"Yeah—it wasn't personal," Mozzie said. Like Neal, he'd watched the way Santa and his elves had gentled the unhappy man with admiration. Turning friends into enemies takes a special skill.

Jack grimaced. "I know. It never _is_. I suppose you didn't mean _any_ of those things you said," Jack said, his eyes baleful but without any real malice.

"Then you suppose wrong," Neal said. He stopped and faced the man. "You do amazing artwork. I guess I've been as guilty as the rest of taking your work for granted, but that doesn't mean I haven't enjoyed it, or appreciated it. Sometimes we don't say the things we should. I'm sorry." He started to put out his hand but stopped, remembering Fred's frozen little body. Jack saw the aborted gesture and a faint smile tipped the corners of his mouth.

"Apology accepted," Jack said, and sighed again. He looked at Mozzie. "Did you mean what you said about the galleries and the...the glassware?" There was not much hope in his voice, but there was _some_. "I do love glassware."

Mozzie's eyes widened. "I, um, well...I _do_ know some people who might be interested," Mozzie said, "provided we could find some way to make your work more, um, permanent. But I have some ideas about that—" He cast a nervous glance toward Santa's sleigh. "Do you know anything about chemical etching—"

"All aboard who're going with us," Cameron called, glaring at them trailing behind the rest.

"Um, look—_call_ me," Mozzie said, "or—better yet—the next time the temperature is right, drop in and we'll talk, okay? But _no kidnapping_. Other businessmen and the, um, FBI tend to frown on that."

"Businessmen?" said Jack wonderingly. "I _do_ like the sound of _that..._"

"It's a deal then," Mozzie said, and put out his hand. Jack kept his hands carefully behind his back, and a genuine smile graced his face.

"I think we'd better not," he whispered, conspiratorially. "I find it has a..._chilling_ effect on new relationships."

Mozzie hastily put his hand away, but grinned, sheepish at having forgotten. Neal put his hand on Mozzie's back, but lightly, and turned him toward the group. They allowed themselves to be herded into the sleigh. Despite Santa's girth, they seemed no more crammed than on the trip down, even with Fred's rather unbendable form.

"Will he be okay?" Neal asked, thinking of Fred's warm, pudgy hands.

"Oh, sure," said Togoth. "Soon as we get back, we've got a special bit of magic to bring him round. He'll be on the sleigh handing out presents in no time."

Mozzie sat up front, next to Santa, and the two of them talked almost nonstop, but Neal opted to sit with Fred on his lap, using his frozen body as something of a shield from all the chatter. His expression, had anyone cared to notice, was pensive, and he was a little quieter than he had been on the way.

"Speaking of no t_ime_—you gents be okay if we get the first load out before we get you home? We could sure use the help. We've got to make up some time, no fooling."

Mozzie turned around to look at Neal and shrugged. Neal shrugged back.

"Sure," Neal said. "I've already broken curfew anyway."

Eggnog wasn't his thing,but a couple of beers had put Peter in a better mood, or at least a more _relaxed_ mood.

"At least he answered," Elizabeth answered. Her feet were in his lap, and he rubbed the arch of her foot absently. "And we know he's with Mozzie."

Peter grunted. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing," Peter grumbled.

"Mozzie and Neal gave up their evening to give out presents to orphans. Dressed like _elves_, no less," El said. "I don't think they're going on a stealing spree after that."

"Well, there's no evidence that they ever showed up to give out the gifts," Peter objected, but lightly.

El snorted. "The entire truck was unloaded. Who do you _think_ did that? I'm sure it was Mozzie and Neal and maybe some of their minions."

"Then why didn't they stick around? See the kids get the presents?"

Elizabeth leaned her head back against the couch. "I don't know. I admire Mozzie for helping with the kids at Christmas, but I suppose it might be hard, too."

Peter thought about that. "I suppose. You think they did their part and then cut out?"

"It looks that way."

Peter said nothing, but he knew—better than _anyone—_that Neal could make things _look_ different from what they _were._ Of course, _he'd_ been guilty of seeing things different from how they were himself. His fractured relationship with Neal was proof of same.

"Honey, I was wondering—"

"Sweetie, I was thinking—"

"You first."

"No, you."

Peter smiled and El smiled back. "Do we have anything special planned for Christmas day? I mean, other than sleeping in and opening presents?"

"Not a thing," said El. "Although I was looking for an excuse to try out a few new recipes."

As usual, she was ahead of him. Peter thought himself the luckiest man on the planet. "You want me to call them? What time is good for dinner?"

"Why don't you _text_ them," El said, and scooted down the couch. When he was done, she took his phone out of his hands and wriggled into his arms. "They can get back to us whenever, because I _do_ have something special planned for Christmas _Eve_."

_Luckiest man on the planet_, thought Peter, and kissed her.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Part 7 Summary: **__Neal has a lot to ponder, and Mozzie has a chance for an interspecies date and a new business partner. Still, when the caper is done, there's no place like home for the holidays, and nothing better than spending it with family._

**The Lockpicker and the Elves, Part 7**

Neal had been quiet since their return, even when helping to thaw Fred, but Santa had seen the young man's pensive face and he intended to get it sorted out before they sent him back home. He came alongside Neal where he was stacking boxes and lent his help. He was fast, faster even than the elves, and they worked in companionable silence for several minutes.

"You want to ask me something," Santa rumbled pleasantly.

Neal turned and smiled at him, a brilliant smile that deflected as efficiently as armor. "What? No. _No_, I..."

Santa shot him a _look_, not put off one whit by the dazzling smile. His blue eyes were piercing, and Neal looked away, his cheeks hot with shame. Surely, there was some special place in hell for people who lied to Santa's face.

"Go ahead and ask me," Santa said gently, putting a large, warm hand on Neal's back. Neal stiffened—not with _shock_, but with _recognition_—and he turned and looked at Santa's weathered face in surprise. The look on Santa's face made it plain that he knew, he _already_ knew what Neal wanted to know, no matter how inexpertly he managed to ask it.

"You and Jack," Neal started, then stopped.

"Yes," Santa said. "Jack and I are friends."

"Old friends," Neal said carefully.

"Yes, and _good_ ones, even though we don't always see eye to eye."

"Eye to _eye_? He _kidnapped_ you, locked up up."

"It happens," Santa said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"He almost ruined Christmas_,_" Neal protested. "He—he tried to keep you from doing your...what you _do_."

"That happens, too. You, of all people, should know that." The rebuke was mild, but it hit home. Neal felt more vulnerable and exposed that he thought he could stand and stacked boxes ferociously for a few minutes. Santa coughed discreetly and gave him a moment.

"But...then you let him _go_ afterward. You set him free and...invited him to supper." There was an almost painful longing on Neal's face, a longing to be certain, to _know_ something was real, was true.

"That I did," said Santa. "It seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"But—" Neal didn't know what to say next, but Santa did.

"Jack didn't mean me any harm. He's...Jack sees the world a little differently than I do."

"Artistic types—what are you going to do?" Neal said dryly, deflecting again, but his companion saw through it immediately.

"Well, _some_ of that, I imagine, but what I really meant was, well, he's seen a less _generous_, less _grateful_ side of people that I've been privileged to know."

Neal said nothing, but his eyes were fastened on the old man's face, and his throat felt tight and constricted with feeling. Santa continued.

"He sees the world that _overlooks_ him, or _dismisses_ him, or even _grumbles_ about his work. He feels _invisible_, and _unwanted,_ and he's not far from wrong. It's a shame, but that's the way it is. It's understandable, don't you think, that he sometimes comes off as defiant or antisocial?" He clucked and shook his head.

"But _you_ don't see him that way."

"I _don't_," Santa said at once. "But then, I've know him a long time. I understand him, I think, in ways that most people _can't_." He smiled, his eyes alive with warmth. "I told you—we're friends."

Neal looked down. "Friends don't always..." He trailed off, not sure how to finish his thought, but sure that Santa knew without him saying it. Santa put his arm around Neal's shoulders and squeezed.

"He's trying, Neal," the old man said. "Try not to be so hard on him."

"On _him_?" He gave Santa a look, but he just laughed and gave Neal's shoulders another squeeze.

"He's tough on you—I know it—but it because he's uncertain. Peter's afraid he's going to screw this up, make mistakes."

"Everybody makes mistakes," Neal said slowly, thinking about what he'd just heard. It was true, Peter was _most_ antagonistic when he felt like Neal was withholding information, when he thought he was having to make a decision without all the facts. That had always been _Neal's_ comfort zone, but never _Peter's_. _Never_. The realization made him smile. Santa beamed back at him, happy with Neal's new understanding.

The boxes were packed. Cameron was approaching, a huge grin on his face. Neal almost didn't recognize him.

"We're back on schedule, Sir," he said. "If you're ready, that is."

Santa raised his eyebrows at Neal, who grinned back at him, feeling as light as he had when floating up to Jack's rooftop, feeling free.

"Don't look at _me_," Neal protested. "Say the word and I'm ready." He looked around for Mozzie and saw him talking earnestly to Gerda. Her pointed ears were quivering with amusement, and she was twisting a coppery braid around one finger, smiling up at Moz. "Although, we _may_ have to pry Mozzie out of here with a crowbar."

Santa was looking, too. "Maybe," he said, and they all laughed.

The sleigh now held Santa, presents and elves as well as Neal and Mozzie, but while they were comfortably smushed, they weren't _uncomfortably _smushed. As before, Mozzie sat up front most of the way, peppering Santa with questions and theories, and the big man had given as thorough and scholarly a response to everything as possible. Mozzie was in hog's heaven, as thrilled to have some of his ideas _disproved_ as _proved_.

Apparently, Mozzie had been thinking about their encounter with Jack Frost as well. He darted a look at Santa and moistened his lips.

"Will Jack, um, Mr. Frost be...okay?" Mozzie asked Santa as they neared New York.

"Oh, he'll be fine," Santa said. "I'll keep an eye on him for a few days. He doesn't mean any harm, really he doesn't. His sense of right and wrong isn't that firmly developed, but he's not a bad sort. He just makes a nuisance of himself from time to time." The old man cast him a look. "Did you _mean_ what you said, about helping him market some of his artwork?"

Mozzie coughed and squirmed. "Oh, so you, um, _heard_ that part, did you?"

"I _did_," Santa said severely. He looked at Mozzie and his mouth twitched into a smile. "I know it's a pretty tall order, but I think it might do him good to have his work out there with his name on it."

"Won't people mind? I mean, that he's, um, _magic_ and all?" He had almost said "fictional," but he didn't think _that_ would have gone over very well, seeing as how he was talking to _another_ "fictional" being at the moment.

Santa sighed. "And how many ads did you see _my_ picture on this year?" he asked dryly.

"Oh, um, right," Mozzie said. "But you don't worry about the royalties and, um, all."

"I don't," said Santa, "and I'm pretty sure Jack won't either. He's loaded, in case you didn't know. The miracle of accrued interest for a few hundred years, well..."

Mozzie tried not to goggle, and Santa spoke again before he had to think of something appropriate to say to _that_.

.

"Either way, if you'll promise to be aboveboard on any royalty stuff—say, find an appropriate charity or something?—I'm in favor of it."

"I know a couple of charities," Mozzie said, gleeful at the thought of telling Mr. Jeffries as well as his _current_ adopted children's home. "I understand we might have some friends in common?"

Santa boomed with laughter. "That we do," he conceded. "Shoot straight with Jack, Mozzie—he deserves someone who will treat him fairly. Do your part, and I'm sure I'll be able to swing the council."

"The, um, _Magical Counsel_?" Mozzie squeaked.

Santa looked at his bright eyes and eager face.

"Theodore," he said firmly. "I think you've had _quite_ enough adventure for one evening. Let's leave a few mysteries for _next_ time, why don't we?"

"Next time," Mozzie breathed, reaching out to pinch himself surreptitiously. Santa saw it and laughed, then threw his arm around Mozzie and squeezed.

"You're not dreaming, little man," he said. "This is a Christmas you'll never forget."

When they neared New York, Santa called him up to the front, and Mozzie shifted to the back, into the seat next to Gerda. She smiled at him as he sat down and Neal bit his lip with the effort of not saying anything.

"So, quite an evening, my boy," said Santa, and Neal laughed and smiled.

"It has been that, Sir," he murmured. He felt his phone buzz and pulled it out. They were apparently in range again.

"Your friend is calling you?" Santa asked.

"Texted me," said Neal. He looked at the little icon for a moment and felt his gut tighten. Had Peter called to demand his whereabouts? Had he been by his apartment? Called the Marshall's office? He touched the icon and the message appeared.

You and Mozzie come for Christmas dinner. Two-ish?

He stared. _Peter was inviting him to Christmas dinner at his house? Peter was inviting __**Mozzie**__ to Christmas dinner at his house?_ He pinched himself, much like Mozzie had done, and Santa laughed at him just the same as he had at Mozzie.

"I told you, Neal—he's trying."

"I've tried, too," Neal muttered, appalled at how sulky and adolescent it sounded.

"Then you have something in common, don't you?" said Santa. The sleigh began to slow. "Almost home, my boy. Tell him you'll come."

Neal hit REPLY and typed, "Thx. That would be nice. See you there."

The sleigh landed lightly on the roof of June's house and they all piled out. Neal couldn't remember the last time he'd been hugged this much, and Mozzie looked positively _rumpled_ by the time he staggered away to stand next to Neal. They watched in silence as the reindeer gathered themselves, then launched the sled into the air with Santa, the presents and a handful of elves. Fred turned around and waved to them until only his bobbing pointed cap was visible, then even that winked out.

"Well," said Mozzie. "That was..."

"Fun?" said Neal, grinning. Mozzie swallowed, then chose his words carefully.

"Enlightening," he said. They groped around on the roof for the trap-door handle and finally found it. The hatch opened easily and they descended the ladder into Neal's apartment, which seemed bizarre by the simple feat of being ordinary. Nothing seemed ordinary tonight. Everything seem wondrous, and magical.

They looked at each other.

"Glass of wine?" said Neal.

"Please," said Mozzie.

Neal poured and they wandered over to the couch. They sat down and put their elf boots on the coffee table, a liberty Neal would never have allowed if he'd been less thunderstruck by the day's events.

"I like my red ones," said Mozzie. "But Gerda says I can have a green pair like yours if I want."

"She did?" Neal said, looking at Mozzie sternly. "What _else_ did Gerda say? Or should I be asking, 'What did you say to Gerda?'"

"Nothing. She's a lovely girl. We just talked about the possibility of, um, comparing notes on a few, um, gadgets the next time I'm, er, _up_ there."

"It really happened, didn't it?"

"It did, mon frere. The Suit would never believe you."

"Oh—Peter and Elizabeth have asked us over for Christmas dinner. Two-ish?"

"I'll bring the wine," Mozzie said.

"You mean, you'll bring _my_ wine," Neal said.

"I cannot answer that," said Mozzie, "on the grounds that I might incriminate myself."

Neal began to laugh, and couldn't stop. After a moment, Mozzie joined him, and they laughed until tears streamed out of their eyes. Neal checked the time, unsurprised to find it was after midnight.

"Merry Christmas, Moz."

"Merry Christmas, Neal.


End file.
